


give me a new religion

by Muir_Wolf



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Apocalypse, F/M, it's the end of the world as we know it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-27
Updated: 2012-11-27
Packaged: 2017-11-19 15:54:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/575008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muir_Wolf/pseuds/Muir_Wolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He isn’t infected, she thinks. It’s just a cut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	give me a new religion

Her hand is shaking.

She tightens her fingers into a fist and holds it until they start to ache—she releases them slowly, stretching them out as far as they go. They feel foreign to her, but they’re steady, so she picks up the needle and thread.

(They’d hit the narrow walkway at a run, their guns tight in their hands and their bodies aching from the pace they’d kept. The strip of cloth bound to his right arm was stained red; sweat-damp clothing clung to their skin despite the chill air.

“We have to get to you to a lab,” he’d said one hundred and thirteen hours earlier, and they finally had.)

She stitches up the wound carefully—she can’t use any sort of painkiller that will dull his reflexes, and she’s worried about how the virus will react to any localized treatment. Not that he’s infected—he should be fine. It was a cut, not a bite, and as long as the virus isn’t airborne—

But just in case, she thinks. Anyway, he’s been through rehab, he shouldn’t be on any painkillers.

He grits his teeth, but the worst of it was the disinfecting. The cut is deep, and still bleeding sluggishly, and he’d slammed his fist down on the table hard enough that it knocked the bottle of cotton swabs onto its side when she'd cleaned it out.

(“Why a lab?” she'd asked. “Shouldn’t we be getting into a bomb shelter or something? Some place _safe?_ ”

“A bomb shelter is hardly going to have what you need to cure this, Watson.”

“ _Cure_ this?” she'd said. “Are you joking? I’m sure the CDC and research labs and the goddamn military are on it, why on earth would I—”)

His hand presses against her hip, and for a second she thinks he’s going to try to push her away.

“Halfway done, Sherlock,” she says. He nods through the pain, panting slightly. Instead of pushing her, his hand fists itself in her shirt. She can feel the warmth of it so close to her skin, a welcome counterpoint against the deep gouge she’s stitching up.

He isn’t infected, she thinks. It’s just a cut.

(“And if they don’t?” he'd said. “If they don’t find a cure?”)

She wraps a clean bandage around it when she’s done. His skin feels warm to her touch, and she rests her hand against his forehead, his cheeks.

“You should lock me up,” he says.

“You’re not infected,” she says. Her hand is still cupping his cheek, but she can’t bring herself to move it.

“Just in case, then,” he says. He leans into her, resting his head against her stomach, sucking in an unsteady breath. “At least if I am you’ll have a test case for your cure.”

Her hand slides to the back of his neck, squeezing lightly.

“The handcuffs are in my bag,” she says. She starts to pull away, but he pulls himself to his feet, his hand still resting against her hip.

“No penance for me, Joan,” he says. “Whatever happens, no more penance.”

She lifts her chin a little and sucks in an unsteady breath.

“I thought you agreed to stop ordering me about,” she says.

They stay like that for a long moment, and then she steps back. Pulls the handcuffs out of her bag.

(“We’re almost there,” he’d said.

They could see the building in the distance, just a mile more to go. They could make it.)

“You shouldn’t have pushed me out of the way,” she says, easing the handcuffs around his wrists, his arms around the pipe. Her gun is tucked into the back of her waistband. The doors and windows are barred.

“I told you I’d get you to a lab,” he says. “And I did.”


End file.
